


Earthly Dust from off Thee Shaken

by MDJensen



Series: Me and Captain America [4]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Extremely minor character death, Gen, Jerry needs his ohana, everyone loves Jerry, honestly just a bunch of cuddles and hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-24 06:49:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16634978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Jerry loses someone close to him. Steve and the others make sure he doesn't go through it alone. Set in season 9.





	1. Chapter 1

Steve hears the phone buzz without really registering it; that’s generally the way when he’s focused on a case. His senses have been trained to pick up every little thing. But they only send the important stuff through to his brain, and a phone going off isn’t important, in and of itself.

Jerry answering, though—that he notices. Because his voice sounds weak to Steve’s ears, face pale in Steve’s peripheral vision, and in an instant Steve has the impression that the man has been expecting this call. And dreading it.

“Jerry Ortega,” he answers, tightly. Steve waves at him to go to take the call elsewhere and he nods, unspeaking, and lurches towards the door.

“He all right?” Lou prompts. Junior and Tani are looking at one another uncertainly, and Danny has spared an upwards glance before returning to the information displayed before them.

Nobody has an answer. But Steve’s brain processes for a moment before deciding that, one, the case can be solved by just four people and, two, Jerry needs something, or more accurately somebody, right about now. Therefore three, Steve’s got somewhere else to be. A look at Danny shows that he’s come to the same conclusion, so Steve heads from the bullpen, in the direction of Jerry’s retreat.

Jerry’s not in the hallway, so Steve goes down to his office; finds the door open a crack. He lingers—doesn’t see it as snooping, so much as gathering information— and for a moment hears nothing. Then comes the phone again, buzzing on a desk surface, and Jerry clears his throat before answering in a voice that’s sticky with tears.

“Hey, Madeline. Yeah, thanks. Thank you.” A pause. “Yeah, they just called. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

Another pause, as Jerry listens to whatever Madeline’s saying, and sniffles softly. “That would be great,” he replies, after a little while. “Yeah, I gotta talk to my boss, but I should be able to. Great. See you soon.”

The call ends, and Steve waits a few beats before rapping his knuckles on the doorframe.

“Yeah?” Jerry calls.

“It’s me, Jer.”

“Hey, yeah. You can, um. Open the door.”

Steve does, and finds Jerry sitting at his desk, scrubbing at his nose with the collar of his shirt. He closes the door behind himself, goes and perches on the couch. “Can I get you anything? Water or something?”

“Nah,” Jerry replies, smiling weakly. “Thanks.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

“Yeah. Um. Friend of mine passed away just now.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, quietly. It’s more or less the answer he was expecting; wasn’t sure what else could have prompted Jerry’s tears. He’s an excitable guy, but not an overly emotional one. “Anyone I know?”

Jerry sniffles again. “You remember, uh, Ruth Tannenbaum?”

Steve doesn’t, and it must show on his face, because Jerry elaborates: “fern lady? Neighbor from the stakeout apartment?”

“Right. Yeah.” He does now, though that seems like an eternity ago.

“Kinda been lookin’ after her, since then. She didn’t really have anybody.” Jerry looks away, sinks in on himself a little. “Anyway, she’s—she’s been sick. So, yeah.”

“Aw, Jerry. I’m so sorry, buddy.”

“I’m sorry to ask, commander, but do you think I could—I know we’ve got a case—”

“Go, go. We’ll handle it.”

“I’m kind of her executor,” he continues, though he’s got his answer already. “I just spoke to the funeral director, and she says I can come get all the paperwork signed and stuff—”

“Right. Jerry, do what you’ve gotta do.”

Jerry nods, then covers his eyes. Steve lets him be, for a moment.

“You were pretty close, then,” he prompts, after half a minute of silent tears. Jerry wipes his nose, looks up.

“Yeah. Um. Ruth never got married. Her sister’s gone. She’s got a nephew on the mainland but they didn’t really have much to do with each other.” He coughs a little. “At first I just checked in one her once in a while. But just about two years ago, she found out she had cancer. She needed somebody to step up, you know? And nobody else was gonna. So, I did.”

“Two _years_?” This just gets him a nod. “Jerry, why didn’t you say anything?”

Jerry shrugs, looking faintly embarrassed. “Everybody’s had stuff goin’ on.”

And that’s—well, that’s painfully true, but it doesn’t excuse the lack of telling. Or Steve’s lack of noticing. He and Jerry aren’t exactly best friends, but they’re _ohana_ ; they have each other’s backs.

At least they’re supposed to.

“That was a hell of a load to carry alone,” Steve scolds, gently. Jerry doesn’t reply.

“Right. So you’re meeting with the funeral people now?”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, man. You ever done this before? Set up a funeral?”

Jerry shakes his head.

“Okay, well, I have. Few times by now. It’s good to have someone with you, okay? Would you mind?”

“Mind what?”

“If I came?”

“Oh,” Jerry says, eyes going wet again. He looks at his feet. “But there’s a case—”

“The other guys can handle it,” Steve tells him firmly. And he truly believes that; wouldn’t be offering if he didn’t.

“Okay,” Jerry gets out, barely louder than a whisper. “Thanks, commander.”

But he makes no move to stand.

Steve’s still debating whether or not to hug him—he’s getting better at stuff like this, but he’s not exactly great at it—when the door opens. Danny enters. Assesses the scene, adjusts the scowl on his face to an expression of sympathy. “What’s up, Jer?”

Jerry peers up at him, giving that small, sad smile again. “Friend of mine died.”

“Aw, jeez, Jerry.” And Danny solves the problem of Steve’s indecision by going right over and hugging Jerry with both arms.

Jerry sighs, tips forward a little. Even sitting, his head reaches Danny’s chest, and Danny puts his chin in Jerry’s hair and just holds on for a good long moment. “That’s rough, babe,” he says, pulling away. “How you doin’?”

“’m okay.”

“Let me know if I can do anything, okay?”

Jerry nods, brushing away the tears not absorbed by Danny’s shirt.

“We’re going to the funeral home now,” Steve tells Danny, quietly. Hoping he’ll get the meaning: that the most important thing he can do right now is go with Lou and the rookies and get the case wrapped up.

Danny nods. “All right. We’ll call when we’ve got the assholes in custody.” He pats Jerry’s cheek, in a way that’s sarcastic but also genuinely fond. “Bye, Jer.”

“Bye, Danny,” Jerry mumbles.

It’s the last Steve hears of his voice for a while; he’s silent as they leave the Palace, silent still as Steve leads them both to his truck. He settles in the passenger’s seat, stares out the window. Doesn’t even talk to give the address, just enters the location into his phone and lets the GPS guide Steve itself.

It’s maybe a twenty minute drive. Steve spends most of it thinking about the case, it’s true, but inevitably his mind wanders to other funeral homes he’s been to, other services he’s helped plan. There have been a good handful by now. Leonard’s, with Deb; Deb’s with Mary; Mom’s, with Dad.

Dad’s. Alone.

Jerry sighs as they pull into the parking lot, but when he speaks his voice is surprisingly steady. “Thanks for the ride, commander. You honestly don’t need to come in with me.”

“Yeah, I don’t _need_ to. The question is, do you _want_ me to? It’s okay if you don’t.”

“No, I do—”

“Then there’s your answer,” Steve says, firmly.

A woman about their age greets them at the door and takes Jerry’s hand in both of hers, squeezing it rather than shaking. “Jerry,” she greets. “How are you holding up, honey?”

“I’m okay,” Jerry replies, automatically. “Thanks for doing this today. Quick, um. Turnaround.”

“Well, you and Ruth did figure out most of it already. There isn’t much to do, really. Hi,” she adds, letting go of Jerry’s hand and reaching (with one of hers) for Steve’s. “I’m Madeline.”

“Steve. I’m a friend of Jerry’s.”

“Good of you to come with him,” Madeline replies, shaking his hand firmly. Then she turns back to Jerry. “All right, honey. This shouldn’t take too long. You ready?” Her voice is casual, almost cheery, but the seeming nonchalance is belied by her gentle grip on Jerry’s elbow. When he nods, she leads them to a small side room.

“Okay,” she says, settling Jerry in a chair at a large wooden table. Steve sits beside him, across from Madeline. “My plan is to swing by the hospital as soon as we’re done here and pick up Ruth. Now, you know she wanted a closed casket. But we can find time for you to see her, if you like. This evening, or tomorrow. Do you think you’d like to?”

Jerry swallows, audibly. “Wow. I.” He blinks a few times. “First question, and I’m already stumped. Not sure this bodes well.”

“We’ll save that question for later, then,” Madeline soothes, and Jerry sighs. “All right. Really, it’s mostly planned. You have a copy of this list? Of the friends she wanted to notify? Good, okay. I’ve already reached out to the pastor. She’s given me a list of times she could do—”

Steve loses focus on the actual words for a moment, while Jerry and Madeline discuss the time and date the funeral will be held. Instead he sizes Jerry up, tries to decide how he’s doing. He looks better than he has since receiving the call, which makes sense; being useful really is the best distraction. Still there’s tension in his posture. Steve thinks of Susie’s death, of how he offered himself up for Jerry to talk to, but never pushed the issue when Jerry didn’t.

That was about two years ago, come to think of it. Around the time of Ruth’s diagnosis.

Bit by bit there’s been a twinge growing in Steve’s belly; in this moment it coalesces into an actual stomachache.

Then the movement of paper across the table recaptures his attention.

“All right,” Madeline says, as Jerry signs a few pages. “That’s it for the insurance, then. Date’s set. Have you thought about it? What she asked you?”

“Yeah,” Jerry sighs, sliding the papers back. “I’ll do it. How could I not, right?”

“She didn’t want you to do it, if you weren’t comfortable. I remember her saying that a few different times.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m not uncomfortable.”

“All right. The instrumental part, that’s a track on the CD you gave me, right?”

“Yeah.” Jerry glances over, acknowledging Steve for the first time in a few minutes. “Ruth asked me to sing at the service. So. Get ready for that.” He flashes his teeth, in a not-even-trying-to-fake-it smile.

Steve gives a real smile in return, and pats Jerry’s arm. “Buddy, you’ve got a fantastic voice.”

“Yeah. Church music’s not really my usual, though.”

“It’ll be lovely,” Madeline assures, neatening the papers in her file. “She wouldn’t’ve asked you if you couldn’t pull it off, I’m sure. I didn’t know Ruth well, but I can’t see her humoring someone like that.”

“Yeah, definitely not,” Jerry agrees. “So. Are we all set, then?”

“We are. All set for Tuesday, ten in the morning. The only thing left is, have you decided? If you’d like to see her or not?”

It’s clear from Jerry’s face that he hasn’t; Steve reaches over and lays a hand on his arm.

“There’s no right or wrong here,” Madeline promises. “Only, Ruth didn’t want to be embalmed. If you’d like to see her, today or tomorrow would be the time for it.”

 “I—” Jerry starts, and then he has to stop and clear his throat. “I don’t. I don’t think I want to.”

“That’s all right, Jer,” Steve murmurs, at exactly the same time that Madeline says, “that’s fine, honey.”

Jerry nods, looking freshly miserable. “Okay. All right. Thanks, Madeline.” He stands, and Steve and Madeline follow suit.

They say goodbye, then, and Steve leads Jerry from the building. It rained a little while they were inside, apparently, and the grass and flowers around the funeral home seem all the brighter for it. Jerry stops and stares a moment.

Steve takes the opportunity to check his phone, finding a missed call and a text from Danny indicating that they’ve caught the guys who needed catching. He slips the phone back into his pocket, feeling more at leisure now. There’s a bench at the edge of the home’s yard, probably put there for moments just like this; Steve nudges Jerry, and points it out.

“Sit for a minute, buddy?”

Jerry nods, wide-eyed and a little disoriented; he lets Steve lead him to the bench, sluice the water from the smooth wooden slats. They sit, and Jerry takes a few slow breathes.

“How’re you holdin’ up?” Steve prompts, after a minute.

“All right,” Jerry replies, nodding absently.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Hey, is it cool if I make a call, though? I texted Chin earlier. He said to call him when I got the chance.”

“Yeah, ‘f course. Tell him I say hi.”

Jerry nods, pulls out his phone, and puts the call through; he sits, staring impassively at the sparkling grass, until the line connects. Then Chin’s voice comes through, and Jerry’s face crumples.

If roles were reversed, Steve would definitely want privacy. As it is, he’s still feeling acutely Jerry’s decision to handle this all himself, and so instead of leaving he puts his arm around Jerry’s back.

“Hey, Jer.” Chin sounds small and slightly artificial through the phone, but still his tone is warm. “I’m sorry to hear about Ruth.” Jerry doesn’t respond, occupied as he is with fighting back a wave of tears, and Chin pauses a moment before going on. “How are you, brah?”

Jerry sniffles, and swallows fitfully. “Not great. ‘m not—I’m not good with this stuff. You know.”

“Nobody’s good with it. Not really. Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Jerry gets out. “I kinda just wanted to hear your voice.”

Chin’s soft laughter says he understands perfectly. “Of course. Hey, is somebody with you?”

“Yeah. Steve’s here.”

Warmth washes through Steve’s body, to hear how offhandedly Jerry acknowledges his presence. Like it’s no big deal, like it’s to be expected. He rubs at Jerry’s shoulder, distantly aware that the relief has eased the pain in his stomach, a bit.

“Hi, Steve,” Chin calls.

“Hi, Chin,” Steve replies, and Jerry laughs wetly and puts the phone on speaker.

“I’m okay. I’m fine. Hey, tell us about Sarah.”

“Sarah’s great,” Chin says, and his voice sounds normal now, as though he were right there. “Matter of fact, she’s got a recital tomorrow night—”

Steve and Jerry sit for a while, comfortable on the bench, listening to Chin talk adoringly about his niece. For the first minute or two, Jerry’s still wiping tears. But then the rise and fall of his back under Steve’s arm slows, becomes regular, and he even smiles a little at some of Sarah’s antics.

When they finally hang up, Jerry looks honestly better. And Steve realizes, not for the first time, that Jerry lost his best friend when Chin moved away.

“Okay,” Steve says, not taking his arm back just yet. “Give you a ride home, buddy?”

Jerry laughs. “I’d prefer a ride back to the Palace?”

“Case is cracked. You really wanna go in for half an hour of paperwork? Paperwork that you aren’t even in charge of?”

“I was thinking more that I’m parked there.” He laughs again, at Steve’s face. “Not that I don’t genuinely appreciate your concern, commander. But I’m fine. Completely capable of driving myself home.”

“Not sayin’ you’re not. Like before. Not asking what you need, just what you want.”

“Ride to the Palace, please,” Jerry answers.

“Okay.” Steve pats Jerry’s shoulder one last time, before taking his arm back and standing. “Ride to the Palace, it is. But seriously, I do not want you to wait around ‘til five. Go home, have a drink, do whatever your version is of self-care.”

“Self-care?”

“That’s what Lynn called it. Is that not a thing people say?”

“No, it’s a thing people say. I just don’t think I expected you to say it.”

“C’mon,” Steve says, and pulls Jerry to his feet.


	2. Chapter 2

Jerry comes in the next day, Friday, though Steve tells him half a dozen times that he doesn’t need to. It’s a sentiment he repeats visiting Jerry’s office later that morning.

As before, Jerry waves his hand vaguely. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think the bereavement allotments in the contract include random old ladies.”

He flinches a bit at his own words, but hides it well.

“Maybe not, but I’d’ve put Ruth down as a grandmother. That’s five days’ leave.”

Jerry blinks, still looking slightly stunned at himself. “I’ll take all day Tuesday. Don’t think I’ll feel like comin’ in after that.”

“Okay. Hey, you up for company tonight? Pizza and Trek?”

The laughter he gets in response is sharper than expected. “Do I really seem that pathetic?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s—not even eleven o’clock and you’re the fourth person to try to make plans with me tonight.” He ticks it off on his fingers. “Grover invited me to dinner, Danny asked if I wanted to see a movie with him and Charlie, and Eric invited me to a pub crawl.”

Steve can’t help but snort. “Buddy, no offense. But Eric’s too old for a pub crawl, and you’ve got fifteen years on him.”

“Believe me, that’s what I said.”

“Well. It sounds like you have a wide range of options.”

“All of which include a bit more socializing than I’m up for.”

“Well, mine just includes me. And Edward.”

Jerry shuts up and smiles at the dog’s reverse nickname, just as Steve had hoped.

“Listen,” he continues, “I don’t need an RSVP card. If you wanna come over, come whenever, but if you’re later than eight-ish I’m figurin’ out dinner without you.”

In the end Steve doesn’t have to worry about that. It’s only a little past six when the doorbell (and Eddie’s barking) sound through the house, and Steve answers the door to find Jerry standing there with a gigantic bottle of wine.

Steve waves him in, takes the wine. For all that Jerry’s been insisting that he’s fine, he looks awful now, and Steve sits him on the couch and goes to get some glasses and the corkscrew. Comes back to find Eddie in Jerry’s lap, head on his chest. Which is just more proof because Eddie, who was probably a therapy dog in another lifetime, doesn’t really cuddle unless someone he likes really needs it.

Steve opens the wine, pours them both generous glasses. Then he settles beside Jerry on the sofa, close but at enough of a distance that he can angle himself a bit for better conversation.

“Hey,” he opens, quietly.

“Hey.”

“It comes in waves, huh?”

Jerry just nods, tosses back his wine, and accepts the bottle from Steve to fill his glass again.

“Junior around?”

He is, but Steve’s 100% sure he’ll stay locked up in his bedroom. “Nah,” he replies.

“Just wondering.”

“Yeah. Hey, man, you wanna talk about it?”

Jerry shakes his head.

Eddie shifts soon thereafter and curls up in between them, and they sit in silence, hands bumping occasionally as they both scratch the dog’s head. Steve sips his wine. Jerry’s on his third or fourth glass by the time he’s done his first but, honestly? He gets it. Can’t judge him for that. Sometimes you need to be a little drunk to talk about the stuff you can’t talk about otherwise; and Steve knows that Jerry needs to talk. Like, needs to pretty badly.

And finally, eventually, he does.

“I just—I just feel like shit I wasn’t there,” Jerry sighs. He rubs absently at his chest. “They said she went in her sleep. She’s mostly been sleeping, the past week or so. And when she’s awake she’s not really, like, lucid. It still—it kills me to know that she went alone, you know? Nobody there. Nobody holding her hand. They say she went in her sleep, but how do they know for sure? That she didn’t wake up for that one last moment and look for someone—look for anybody to be there with her, and nobody was there—imagine, you know you’re—you know you’re g-going and you look for someone just to—just to say goodb-bye to—and _no one comes_ — shit,” he adds, choking up badly. “I was fine all day. Now the last, like, two hours, I’ve just been—been a total f-freaking mess—”

“You’re allowed to be, buddy.”

“Guess. I dunno. It just makes me sick, when I think about it. Your whole life you’re on—you’re on stage, like you’re singin’ your heart out, and when you finish—no applause. You jus’—you jus’ wink out? No ovation, no encore. No— _acknowledgement_? I kept her company for three years, man. And in the end she still went alone. I—aw, man.”

He falls apart a little, for a moment. Covers his face first with one hand; then, after Steve takes his wine glass, with both. “Sorry,” he gets out. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Really.”

He pulls his hands away; his eyes are full of tears but none have fallen yet. “Sorry,” he says, again. “’f Chin were here I’d be dumping this all on him. Sorry you get the, um. Honors.”

“Buddy, it’s literally fine.” Steve puts both the glasses aside, and scooches Eddie off the couch so he can move a little closer.

“The thing is,” Jerry continues, “I’m like, a pretty happy guy? Maybe I couldn’t’ve said that ten, fifteen years ago, but I’m—I’m pretty good. I’m pretty content. It’s almost embarrassing that I’m—I’m so freaking emotional about this.”

Steve suppresses the urge to smile; he doesn’t want Jerry to think he’s laughing at him. Just, he knows what fishing for reassurance looks like. Seeing it so obviously in Jerry’s eyes feels like seeing himself reflected in still water. “That’s not something you have to be embarrassed about, Jer,” Steve says, gently but a little sternly too. He smooths a hand down Jerry’s back.

But Jerry just shudders, and looks away; Steve wonders briefly if he’s gone too far before deciding that probably he just hasn’t gone far enough. So he slings an arm around Jerry’s shoulders.

It works. Jerry gives a huge, shaky sigh and turns towards him, curling closer, touching his forehead to Steve’s shoulder. “Is this—‘s this okay?” he asks, voice muffled. “’m not hurting you, am I?”

“Hurting me?”

“Leaning on you too hard?”

“ _Jerry_ ,” Steve sighs; the weight against him doesn’t hurt but the question itself stings a bit. He knows Jerry doesn’t doubt him, specifically. Which means that Jerry would doubt anybody in this situation—would never _not_ have this question on his mind when somebody tried to hold him.

Actually? That kind of more than stings.

“You’re fine, man,” Steve murmurs. “Put your head down. C’mon, all the way. All the way, brother.”

Jerry hesitates a little longer but finally gives in, slumping heavily, burrowing into the curve of Steve’s body. Hiding his face in Steve’s neck. Hugging one arm around Steve’s waist, the other around his own.

Steve rests his chin in Jerry’s hair. Feels him shiver, hears the sharp, tense breathing as he tries not to sob out loud. “Hey,” he whispers, into Jerry’s curls. “I need you to listen to me, okay? This? This is okay. Even if Chin were around, I hope that you’d feel like you could come to me with this.”

Steve lets his eyes shut, briefly. This is satisfying his own (generally unheeded) desire for physical contact, and there’s no point in denying it.

“I might not know what to say. I’m not the best at this kind of stuff. But I’m here for you. You’re feelin’ shitty; no reason for you to feel alone, too.”

Jerry doesn’t answer. But neither does he pull away. His breathing changes, softer now but less even, and the heat of tears begins to soak Steve’s collar. Steve closes his eyes again, adjusts his hold. “I know, buddy,” he murmurs. “I know. I know.”

*

Once the crying has ended, Jerry remains, motionless against Steve’s chest. Without raising the rest of his hand, Steve taps a finger on Jerry’s shoulder.

“You fall asleep on me?” He keeps his voice gentle.

“Mm. No, sorry.” Jerry peels away, scrubbing at his face. “Just—closed my eyes a little.”

“I didn’t mean you had to move. I was just curious. You okay?” he adds, because Jerry’s hand has gone still, with his fingers pinched to his eyes.

“Headache,” Jerry grunts.

“Migraine?”

“Nah. But it’s kinda bad.”

And yeah, the wine-and-crying combo will definitely do that to you.

“Okay. Sit tight, okay? I’ll get you something for it.”

Jerry nods without opening his eyes, and Steve pats his back before getting to his feet and going into the kitchen.

There he sets some water to boil, then hunts down a bottle of ibuprofen in the bathroom. Back in the kitchen, he makes two cups of hibiscus tea and wets a towel before returning to the living room.

To find that Jerry’s not on the couch anymore. Instead he’s sitting on the floor with his back against it, knees bent before him, Eddie at his side.

Steve finds himself smiling a little. He puts everything on the coffee table and kneels before Jerry, gently bumping a fist to his arm. “My couch wasn’t good enough for you?”

Jerry shrugs.

“Whatever floats your boat, man. Here.” Steve reaches back for the pill bottle and unscrews it, shaking a few into Jerry’s palm. He taps Jerry’s hand. Mechanically Jerry tosses the pills in his mouth and accepts the tea to swallow them down.

“Wipe your face,” Steve says, when he’s finished, and switches the tea for the warm, damp towel. Jerry does as he’s told. Then he watches dully as Steve takes the towel from him, folds it and blots it at the back of his neck.

“I asked if it was a migraine,” Steve notes, “’cause you want cold for migraines, but warm for anything else— _hey_ —”

Because to Steve’s alarm, Jerry’s started crying again; thick, slow tears run silently down his cheeks, into his beard.

He’s already got the towel in hand. So Steve reaches to blot the tears—more than a little surprised when Jerry knocks his arm away.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”

“Jerry, what’s wrong?”

“You wanna know the truth?”

“Yeah, of course I do.”

“It’s—so good having you with me, right now. Having somebody take care of me. But the more I get used to it, the more it’s gonna hurt when it’s gone. So I think maybe I should just leave now.”

“Jerry—”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“Huh?”

“Why would you?”

“Get what?”

“Couple of decades from now, that’s gonna be me!” Jerry howls, face reddening behind the tears. “I’m gonna get old, and get sick one day, and sooner or later I’ll just be _gone_. And nobody will miss me. _Nobody will miss me_!”

Steve’s half afraid that Jerry will dodge him again, but he can’t stop to care; he gets his arms around Jerry’s shoulders and hugs him as tightly as he can. And Jerry doesn’t resist in the slightest. Just hugs back and sobs, helplessly, into Steve’s neck, clinging like a child, or like somebody not sure they’ll ever be held this way again.

Steve rocks him a little. Murmurs quietly, until at last Jerry seems calm enough to actually pay attention.

“I know what you mean, buddy,” Steve says, then. “I do. Ever since things ended with Cath, I do—I do feel that way too, sometimes. A lot of the time.”

Jerry sniffles, readjusts his head on Steve’s shoulder, but says nothing.

“And yeah, you an’ I, we got plenty of friends, but it doesn’t—doesn’t seem to be enough sometimes, right? And that’s taboo to say or something, but it’s true. I look at Danny with his kids, or at Lou and his family, and I think—I think—I’ll never have that. And it hurts. I know, it hurts.

“But you’re tellin’ me that that means, you shouldn’t lean on your friends? That you shouldn’t lean on me now? Because someday you might be alone again? That doesn’t make any sense.”

All this gets him is another sniffle and a watery hiccup. Steve sighs, shifts his weight. They’re still on the floor, and actually that’s a little better for hugging than sitting side-by-side. But Steve’s knees are starting to ache.

“Hey. Hey, listen, Jer. If you want me to drive you home right now, I will. But if you wanna order a pizza, crash here for the night—we can do that, too. I honestly, honestly mean that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Please.”

“Good,” Steve murmurs, smoothing both hands down Jerry’s back. “Good. Listen, I can’t tell the future, buddy. But right now, right here, I’m with you. I am.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me you believe me.”

“I do.”

“You ready to get off the floor, then?”

Jerry laughs a little. “In, like, two minutes, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah. That’s fine.”

*

They fall asleep eating pizza and watching Star Trek (and drinking tea, but no more wine); Steve wakes up sometime later to find Jerry on the floor again. He’s sleeping upright, with his head on the couch an inch from Steve’s knee.

Still half-asleep, and more affected by Jerry’s earlier tears than he could have anticipated, Steve aches a little at this. He rouses the man with a hand in his hair.

Jerry sighs awake, squints wordlessly at Steve; he looks lost and worn and so damn _sad_ that Steve doesn’t move his hand for a few solid seconds. “Guest bed’s made up,” he says, finally. “C’mon, you need a decent sleep.”

It takes longer than it should for him to process the words, but eventually Jerry nods, lets Steve help him to his feet. Steve shepherds him up the stairs, Eddie trotting besides them.

The former guest room is Junior’s room now, but Steve keeps a bed made up in the library that used to be Mary’s room; he takes Jerry there, keeping a hand to his back the whole way. “Sleep, buddy,” he soothes, as Jerry fumbles to pull his belt off. “That’s the best thing you can do right now, okay?”

“Yeah,” Jerry whispers, absently.

“Okay. I’m down the hall if you need anything.”

Jerry nods, and Steve leaves him be (though Eddie curls up on the carpet, making it clear where he plans to spend the night).

In his own room, Steve takes his usual quick shower. Then crawls into bed and prays to fall asleep before the wave he feels at his back overtakes him.

*

In the morning he finds Jerry in the kitchen, pouring himself some coffee and looking more or less normal. “Morning,” Steve says, finding his own voice a little croaky.

“Mornin’.”

“Feel any better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Jerry smiles, weakly. “How’d you sleep?”

Steve gets a mug, starts getting his own coffee together. “Kinda crappy, t’be honest. You?”

“Yeah. Not too good. But I got a couple hours.”

“How’s the headache?”

“Gone. I don’t usually like to take anything, honestly, but Advil is kind of awesome.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah. Advil is awesome.” He debates for one inhale and one exhale, whether saying what he’s thinking would put too much focus on himself, or maybe just enough to make Jerry more at ease. “I actually can’t take it anymore,” he notes, casually. “Tylenol only, since the transplant.”

“That sucks. Tylenol doesn’t do much for me.”

“Yeah, me neither. Once in a while, I gotta admit, I cheat.”

Jerry tests his coffee, seems to find it too hot. He puts it down and hugs his arms around his chest. “I dunno if it’s more supportive to tell you off for that, or to acknowledge that I have no idea what it’s like so I have no place to talk.”

“You know what I’ve realized? I don’t even need a response, man. Just saying it helps.”

Jerry’s eyes close, and his head tips briefly to the side. “Yeah,” he breathes, then opens his eyes again. (They’re pretty red, Steve notes.) He unfolds one arm from his chest and makes an odd little motion with his hand, like he’s trying to pull his next words directly from his heart. “You can build up too much stuff inside of you, right? Sometimes it doesn’t even make sense; sometimes it doesn’t even feel anything but— _big_. Just. God, humans can just feel so _much_ , can’t they?”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. “They can.”

Then he forces himself back. It’s a new day, a gorgeous, sunny morning, and sometimes the best way to hurt less is just to pretend that you do. “Okay, I gotta let Eddie out for a bit. Then we can figure out breakfast.”

“Actually, I should get home. Shower, fresh clothes. Think I’ll feel better.”

Steve’s honestly confused for a second, about why Jerry can’t do that all here. But of course he can’t. He’s not Danny; he doesn’t keep a toothbrush here, or spare clothes, and he can’t borrow running shorts and a t-shirt like maybe somebody else could have.

In that moment it feels uncomfortably like Steve’s failing him.

Then Jerry smiles. “I’m fine, commander. Really.”

“Danny yells at me when I try to use that line.”

“Okay, I mean, I’m mourning. I’m in mourning. But I think I got the actual, like, incoherent grief out of my system last night.”

Steve resists the urge to sigh at this miserable attempt at stoicism. “Listen, okay, if you need space, go have space. But I’m bringing breakfast to your place around ten tomorrow unless I am explicitly told not to.”

Jerry snorts. “You’re actually worried about me, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“And you don’t get to tell me not to be. C’mere.”

Jerry looks maybe the slightest bit awkward, but he steps without complaint into Steve’s arms and they hug again, for a solid half-minute.

Once Jerry’s gone, Steve sits at the table, slightly lost. He should just go into the office, honestly, catch up on some paperwork without the others around to enable his procrastination of said paperwork. But he can’t bring himself to. This morning, even more than usual, he finds himself craving company, so he drags Junior out of his self-imposed exile and they take Eddie for a swim, then a run. Then they go out for breakfast, just because.

Sitting in a booth across from his sort-of-housemate-sort-of-adopted-son, burning his mouth on buttery coffee while Junior does the crossword on the placemat, Steve feels that Bigness that Jerry had spoken of this morning. It feels soft, and overwhelming. He wants to drive out to the mountains and sweat his way through a twelve-hour hike but he also wants to curl up on the couch and weep his way through some sad movies with happy endings.

And he wants Aunt Deb. Oh, God, he wants her so much. The grief that’s been flickering through his mind for the last two days finally coalesces and for an instant he’s back in California, a seventeen-year-old sprung from the academy for a badly-needed weekend of junk food and attention.

He wants Aunt Deb. God, it’s been almost three years now, but he knows from (plenty of) experience that it takes next to nothing to make it fresh again. Jesus Christ, why do people die, anyway? And why the fuck, at forty-two, does he still feel the need to ask the unanswerable questions?

“You okay, commander?” Junior prompts. Steve nods, forces a gulp of coffee down past the lump in his throat. The Bigness isn’t all pain. There’s comfort too, almost a coziness, and Steve has the sudden desire to put his head on somebody’s shoulder.

He doesn’t, of course. But Junior smiles like he understands and puts his placemat sideways across the table, tapping his pen to show Steve that he needs a nine-letter word for jam.

“Preserves,” Steve supplies, after a moment’s thought.

Then the food comes. The first few bites are hard to get down but it helps to have something warm and solid in his stomach.

Steve relaxes. Returns, more or less, to the land of the living; still his worries for Jerry persist.

He knows what it’s like, is all, to be lonely like that. Lonely, beyond loneliness. Lonely in some cosmic, some existential way, lonely in a way that makes you want to scream, or maybe just fold in on yourself and disappear.

Lonely in a way that makes you think nobody in the entire universe gives a shit about you. The thing is, that’s literally _not true_.

The plan forms quickly in Steve’s mind; he just hopes there’s enough time before Tuesday to put it into action.


	3. Chapter 3

Jerry texts that night, thanking him again but saying he’s really not up for breakfast in the morning. Steve replies, saying he understands, but the conversation ends there. He doesn’t hear from Jerry again until early Monday, when he texts to say he’s taking the offer of a few days off.

 _Let me drive you to the services tomorrow_ , Steve sends. Not only is it something that he’d genuinely like to do, but he also hopes it’s a confirmation to Jerry that Steve is going to attend.

He doesn’t fully expect an answer, let alone an affirmative one. But a few minutes later, he gets back:

_okay. really appreciate it._

On Tuesday morning, the island’s criminals, luckily, behave themselves. Steve’s left Tani and Junior in charge of things, since he, Danny, and Lou all decided more or less without discussion that they were going to take the day off and lend support to Jerry. And though he’s worried they might, no phone calls come in that would change those plans.

Steve sleeps in a little, but he’s still up and ready long before he needs to be. He heads to Jerry’s early, arriving well before nine.

Jerry answers the door, dressed but for his suit jacket; they’ve got a while before they have to leave, so Steve accepts the offer of coffee and they settle quietly at the kitchen table.

“I know you can’t be _ready_ ,” Steve hedges, stirring in creamer. “But. Are you ready?”

Without looking up, Jerry smirks. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m out of bed, I’m dressed, I’m functioning. There’s been mornings of funerals where I couldn’t say that much for myself.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. That death hits you hard. I think it does most of us.”

Jerry hums an acknowledgement, smoothing one thumb down the handle of his mug. “I dunno if it hits me hard or if I just—I just go down too easy. But it’s true. I don’t—I don’t take it well. I never have.”

He glances up, dark eyes a little unfocused. “When my dad died, it was one hundred percent Izzy who got my mom through it. I’m older; I’m almost eight years older. It should have been me. But I couldn’t do it. At his funeral I just sat there and cried.”

Steve nods, saying nothing.

“And that wasn’t even the worst time,” Jerry continues. “A friend of mine, good friend, died— wow, like sixteen years ago now. KIA. One of my best friends, honestly, and his funeral—I couldn’t even make myself go. That was—that was bad. That was deep, dark hole kinda bad.”

Jerry cups both hands around his mug now, like he’s cold, though of course the kitchen’s plenty warm. “I know I didn’t know Ruth long. And part of me feels like that should—that should matter. That should make it hurt less. But it doesn’t. Not a week’s gone by the past three years that I haven’t seen her at least once. The past few months I’ve visited almost every day. I’m—I’m sad for myself, because I’m gonna miss her. Because we more or less adopted each other. And I’m sad for her. Because she was hurting. So much. For so long.”

His tears come quietly, easily. Steve thinks about pulling one of Jerry’s hands away from the mug but in the end he just touches Jerry’s wrist instead. They sit this way, for a long moment. Then Jerry shakes himself, grabs a napkin from the napkin holder and mops his face.

“We should get goin’,” he say, voice hoarse but steady.

They head right for the cemetery; the services and the interment are going to be done all together. They arrive to find that Madeline’s already got most of it set up. There’s maybe thirty chairs, and a few enlarged photos of Ruth displayed on metal stands.

There’s half an hour to go, but already some cars parked nearby. Some figures sitting close together in the chairs, and Steve hears the intake of breath as Jerry processes who’s actually there. Steve rubs his shoulder, parks the truck one-handed.

Jerry tumbles out as soon as they’re stationary, lurching into the cemetery, more or less falling into Chin’s arms. Chin bears the weight with a smile and a pat on Jerry’s back.

Steve follows at a more normal pace, and shares a knowing look with Chin over Jerry’s head.

At length Jerry pulls back, exposing a face drenched with tears. “I can’t believe you came,” he bleats. “You didn’t h-have to come.”

Chin puts a hand to the back of his head, brings their foreheads together. “We’re here,” he says, so soft that Steve barely catches it. “You’re our Jerry. So we’re here.”

“And in case it wasn’t clear,” Kono adds, “Chin’s not using the royal _we_ when he says _we_.”

Jerry bursts into fresh sobs and turns blindly towards Kono’s voice, burying his face in her shoulder while she laughs, gently, into his hair. Chin, arms empty now, turns to Steve.

And even though this wasn’t a surprise for him the way it was for Jerry, Steve still feels the pressure of tears behind his eyes. It’s Chin. Holy crap, it’s _Chin_. Moving at the same instant they wrap each other in the tightest hug they can muster.

“Aloha,” Chin murmurs, just at Steve’s ear. “It’s good to see you, brah.”

“You too,” Steve gets out, a little roughly. “Aw, man, you too.”

Then Kono’s snatching him away, and they’re hugging, and Steve hears Jerry notice Max, and start crying all over again. Steve lets go of Kono to find Max patting Jerry’s arm with a bemused little smile.

Then Danny and Eric arrive, Lou and Adam close on their heels, and another round of greetings ensue; for a moment Steve almost forgets where they are. Why they’re there. Then he realizes other people have joined them: some older women who must be Ruth’s friends, and a thirtysomething man who’s probably her nephew.

This is Ruth Tannenbaum’s funeral, and it’s not about Five-0. Everyone comes around to this in the same instant, and they settle, and find seats. Jerry and Ruth’s nephew share slightly awkward glances, then sit at opposite ends of the first row. Chin and Max sit on Jerry’s sides. Everyone else clusters behind them; Steve ends up directly behind Jerry and between Danny and Kono (which, despite the circumstances, makes him smile).

The pastor’s arrived, and she and Madeline are talking quietly. Then there’s the noise of a car behind them, and Steve turns to see the hearse.

Madeline comes over, lays a hand on Jerry’s shoulder. “Morning, honey.”

“Hey, Madeline.”

“We’re going to get started soon. For a service like this, we don’t actually carry the casket. It’s on wheels. But if you’d like to walk beside it, you can.”

Jerry nods. Steve pats his back as he stands, then watches as he walks over to Ruth’s nephew. After a moment’s discussion, they both head towards the hearse.

It’s four men from the funeral home who ultimately bring Ruth’s casket graveside, but Jerry and her nephew accompany it, holding tight to the railings on opposite sides. Once they’ve brought it there, the workers step to the sidelines. The pastor welcomes everyone, and the service begins.

It doesn’t go for long. The pastor speaks a little, reads from the bible. Jerry sits calmly, his arm linked with Chin’s; Steve leans forward in his seat to keep a hand on Jerry’s back. Ruth’s nephew gives a eulogy that makes no one cry. Then the pastor returns, looks out into the little crowd and smiles at Jerry.

“As part of our final goodbye,” she prompts, “a special request, by Ruth herself. For those of you who don’t know him, Jerry Ortega was a dear friend of Ruth’s. As I said, I’ve known Ruth for many years. She was always, _always_ someone who thought she could do it herself. Go it alone. But when she got sick, and she couldn’t anymore, I don’t think any of us in Ruth’s life stepped up as much as this young man. One of the ways she told me that he’d lift her spirits most is through music. And so she asked—Jerry?” Jerry stands. “So she asked,” the pastor continues, “if he could share one of her favorite hymns today.”

Jerry’s reached the front now. Steve watches his eyes flick briefly to the casket; then he straightens, shoulders back, head high. The pastor steps aside. Madeline ducks forward only long enough to flip a switch on the frame holding the casket, then steps back too.

The casket begins to lower.

It’s been a relatively unemotional affair, thus far; simple prayers and a short eulogy, no widower nor children for them all to rally around. A respectful but tearless goodbye.

This changes the moment Jerry begins singing.

“ _Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee, all through the night_ — _guardian angels, god will lend thee, all through the night—”_

From the other side of the gathering Steve can hear Ruth’s friends stop talking for the first time all morning. For his part, Steve’s pretty sure he’s gaping a bit. Because he’s heard Jerry sing—even in memorium: _Mercy Buckets_ for Toast—but this is just. _Different_. The song spreads through the cemetery, crisp in the humid air, gentle but all-encompassing.

“ _Soft the drowsy hours are creeping, hill and vale in slumber steeping—love alone, his watch is keeping, all through the night—”_

Jerry’s closed his eyes now. He’s got both hands to his chest, which should, by all accounts, look awkward, or at least cliché. But it doesn’t. It looks willful, almost valiant, like he’s holding himself together from the outside in. No grief permitted, for this moment, anyway. Work to be done; songs to be sung.

“ _Hark, a solemn bell is ringing, clear through the night—thou, my love, art heav’n-ward winging, home through the night_ —”

Jerry’s doesn’t cry, but soft sniffles can be heard at large; Steve glances around, sees Ruth’s friends dabbing their noses with handkerchiefs. Sees her nephew with one hand over his eyes. Sees Eric, on Danny’s other side, leaning heavily into his uncle with tears pouring down his cheeks.

Steve doesn’t cry either. Could; chooses not to. But knows that before the day is over he’s going to hide away on the lanai, or in the shower, or even in bed, and come back to this moment, and weep his way through it. For Deb. And Dad, and the many, many friends he’s said goodbye to, and even for Ruth, inasmuch as sometimes, in the end, you’re honestly crying for everyone who’s ever lived or died, for everyone who’s ever been human.

“ _Earthly dust from off these shaken, soul immortal, thou shalt waken—with thy last dim journey taken, home through the night!_ ”

The song ends. So too does to whirring of the mechanism lowering the casket; its job is done. The silence vibrates. And Steve sits and breathes through the oddest sensation: that everything broken in him has healed and everything whole in him has broken.

Jerry opens his eyes. For an instant he still looks dazed, unfocused; then he seems to return to himself, glancing around at the scene. The pastor comes over, lays a hand on his arm. Thanks them all for coming, and then it’s done.

Before anybody else can even stand, Eric’s shoving frantically through the empty chairs in the front row. Free of them, he darts to Jerry’s side and hugs him tightly. Steve lets himself laugh; even at a distance it’s clear that Eric is crying twice as hard as Jerry is.

Everyone has gotten up now. Everyone also wants to hug Jerry, so it’s a few minutes before Steve gets his turn. When he does, he makes it count. Rubs Jerry’s back as Jerry nuzzles against him, presses his face into Jerry’s hair.

“That was,” Steve murmurs, “ _honestly_ beautiful, man. I mean it.”

Jerry says nothing. It occurs to Steve that even though his tears have been coming gently for the past few minutes, now, with Steve’s arms around him, he’s sobbing again.

Steve just holds him close and lets it happen.

With this moment comes a renewed sense of responsibility, and even after Steve has let Jerry go he doesn’t really leave his side. Stands within arm’s reach, more or less as a guard. Jerry flashes a tired smile his way every few minutes, and Steve knows that he understands, and appreciates.

It’s not long before they’re clearly in the way of the cemetery workers. Danny has taken Eric home already, and Adam has left as well, the nearness to his ex-wife probably too much to bear. The rest of them—Chin, Kono, Lou, and Max—gather around Steve and Jerry.

“Well,” Lou begins, pulling himself up. “It’s—it’s not even noon yet. So I guess no drinks. Lunch, then?”

Chin smiles. “No offense to you, Lou—or you,” he adds, turning to Jerry, “but I think you need tea and pajamas. And maybe nothing else today.”

Jerry shrugs, but his expression shows assent.

“Listen, we’re staying a week at least. All three of us. We’ll all see each other plenty.”

“I informed my parents that I would visit them tonight,” Max adds. “Then, from tomorrow on, my calendar will be open.”

“Chin and I should see family tonight, too.” Kono elbows her cousin in the ribs. “We’ll all do dinner tomorrow, and make plans for the weekend then.”

“In other words,” Chin adds, gently, “no pressure today, Jer.”

Jerry lets his head tip forward in utter, tangible exhaustion. “I love you guys,” he gets out, hoarsely.

Kono pats Steve on the shoulder. “Take him home, boss.”

Steve hooks his arm through Jerry’s, elbows folding together; with another nod to the others, he leads him back towards the truck. “You need a minute or anything?” he asks, before they get too far.

“Nah. They’re totally waiting for us to leave.”

“Yeah.”

“Life goes on. I guess it’s just a day for them. Wonder what that’s like.” He glances back at the grave, but just for an instant.

“You don’t feel like you know?”

“Not really. Not in the same way. If somebody dead ends up under our purview, it was probably nasty, and definitely unexpected. Not little old ladies who live for seventy years and die in their sleep.”

“I guess that does it make it different,” Steve admits, as they get to the truck. He unlocks it, and Jerry gets in the passenger’s side. By the time Steve’s sitting in his own seat, Jerry’s removed his jacket and tie, and undone his first two buttons. Presently he lies back, shutting his eyes.

“Okay,” Steve says, starting the engine. “Am I taking you home? Or to my house for a bit? Or, I could come hang out at your place—?”

Jerry smiles—almost laughs, really—but says nothing. Just sits with his eyes closed, pulling in slow, deep breaths.

“You wanna just drive for a while?” Steve offers, smoothing a thumb over the wheel.

Jerry nods.

“Easy enough,” Steve murmurs, and pulls away from the curb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jerry sings is "All Through the Night" and, yes, I have spent actual minutes of my life trying to imagine how gorgeous it would sound in Jorge's voice. If he doesn't sing at least once this season, I'll boycott.

**Author's Note:**

> A note of context might help, I suppose. We lost my grandma on Tuesday and this story is more or less how I've been dealing (#healthycopingmechanisms). Anyway, it doesn't get any more plot-ful from here. But Jerry will continue to get many more hugs. So I hope that makes it worth your while.


End file.
